


couldn't keep your composure

by checkmate



Category: Veep (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Friends With Benefits, Light Masochism, M/M, Oral Sex, Possibly Unrequited Love, and is also tragically in love with dan, both of them are bad at communicating, dan is a masochist who uses pain as a questionable coping method, jonah doesn't know how to handle this info, thats it thats the fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-12-30 02:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18306815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkmate/pseuds/checkmate
Summary: “What the fuck are you doing back in DC, anyway? I thought you had a four day trip.”For someone who spent so long working in politics, Dan isn’t great at subtlety. Or lying. Or hiding the fact that something is bothering him. For someone with a reputation for being, in Amy Brookheimer’s words, almost as self-obsessed as he is freakishly tall, Jonah is pretty good at noticing.*Or, Dan has questionable methods for dealing with stress, and Jonah isn't sure whether he should panic or jerk off first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY VEEP DAY!! We're finally back for one last ride so I thought I'd finally finish/post this fic I literally started when the last season was on, oops. (I've got like the last chapter to finish but close enough.)
> 
> Title is from 'Shameless' by The Weeknd which is a song with deep Jonah/Dan vibes.

“Watch out, dick-munchers, the J train is pulling into the station.” Jonah drops his suitcase in the hallway of Dan’s apartment, and sweeps his sweaty bangs from his face. He’s dressed for the frozen wastelands of New Hampshire, giant puffy jacket and the soft woollen scarf that Dan bought him for Christmas, but somehow even D.C. is warm enough in December to make him feel overdressed. Plus, the elevator is out in Dan’s building. He only lives on the third floor, but still. Jonah doesn’t do stairs.

Dan’s apartment is empty, which is… odd. It might be a Saturday, but it’s not late. Dan is never out this early. Like, what would he do out this early? What do normal people do on a Saturday evening? Go out with friends? Find a stranger to fuck? The latter is… well, more likely, given that Dan doesn’t know what a friend actually is, but Jonah tries not to consider the possibility that he’s sat on Dan’s couch waiting for him to come back from fucking some gorgeous, leggy special advisor or whatever.

He’s been out of the loop for a few hours thanks to a flat phone battery and New Hampshire typical shit weather, but the last thing he wants to do is plug immediately into the news. He’s meant to be out of DC until Tuesday, so if he lays low, plays his cards right, it could be a few days before anyone realises he’s back and expects him to do something. The door opens when he’s just nodded off into a gentle snooze on the couch, TV on quietly in the background but Dan’s startled high pitched yelp jerks him out of his nap. “ _ Jesus, Jonah! _ ” He yells, standing in the doorway. “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

Jonah yawns, stretches out his legs. “And here I was, thinking you’d be happy to see me.” 

Dan chooses not to dignify that with a response and goes to dump his bag in his room. When he emerges, he’s wearing a baggy old  _ Jonah Ryan for US Congress  _ t-shirt, and a pair of Jonah’s boxers so long on him they nearly reach his knees. He smirks — there’s something about Dan in his clothes that does it for him, despite them being comically oversized and inherently unflattering. Dan flops on to the couch beside him, forcing Jonah’s legs over enough to make himself space, and glances at the TV. "What the fuck are you watching?"

Jonah shrugs.

"Is this... Is this  _ Food Network _ ?" He asks gleefully, watching a dowdy looking woman in a floral apron knock up an admittedly delicious looking chicken pot pie. "Is this your plan now? You know your days are numbered in Congress so you're becoming a housewife?" 

“My days aren’t numbered, dick-wad.” Jonah grins. He’s proved that already, that apparently the only thing that old people in New Hampshire like more than Uncle Jeff telling them what to do is… well, him. Even when Jeff tried to run his cousin anyway, Jonah’s name ended up on the ballot paper. “They’re gonna have to lift me out of congress in a motherfucking coffin! You’re the one who needs a real job, not me.” But now all he sees is Dan, naked but for that fucking Food Network floral apron, dinner ready on the table when he comes back from a long hard day of being awesome on the Hill. It’s… a disturbingly good vision. 

“Working for a think tank is a real job.” Dan says, oblivious (thankfully) to Jonah’s weird domestic fantasies. “It's just one with perks that include not being constantly fucked in the ass by the turgid death sentence that is watching C-SPAN.” 

“I like C-SPAN.” 

“You like the fact that due to its literal purpose as a network, you sometimes get to jerk off looking at your own deformed face on television.” 

“Bullshit.” He snaps back, colour rising in his face because okay  _ yes  _ once he  _ happened  _ to be relieving some tension in his office and C-SPAN happened to be recapping the day’s session and he happened to orgasm as soon as television-him started talking about school lunches but that wasn’t his fault. He’d been way too far gone to stop; no one has that much self control. “Besides, like you never jerked off to yourself when you were on CBS.” 

Dan smirked, and finally switched the channel off and turned to face him properly. “You look good with your hair like that.” He immediately lifts a hand to his head, but Dan knocks it back, stopping him from flattening it out. “Exactly what you look like after I fuck you.” 

“A mess?” 

“You always look like a fucking mess.” Dan, on the other hand, can be four days unshaven, food and coffee stains on his shirt and smelling like Furlong’s toilet, and he’s still fucking hot. Not that Jonah would ever tell him that — his head might inflate so much he’d struggle to get through doors. “What the fuck are you doing back in DC, anyway? I thought you had a four day trip.”

For someone who spent so long working in politics, Dan isn’t great at subtlety. Or lying. Or hiding the fact that something is bothering him. For someone with a reputation for being, in Amy Brookheimer’s words, almost as self-obsessed as he is freakishly tall, Jonah is pretty good at noticing. “Weather in New Hampshire.” He explains. 

Dan scoffs “Isn’t there always weather in New Hampshire? No wonder they never get anything done if a bit of snow is all it takes to shut down the airports.” 

“Apparently there’s a bad blizzard coming in. Ben didn’t want me getting stranded. Lasted for a week last time.” He’s apologising, not with his words but with his tone, because Dan is clearly annoyed or upset or something. “If you have plans, I can go.” He reads enough in Dan’s face, the solid jaw set hard and his muscles tense. Jonah stands up to leave, to go back to the apartment he rents despite the fact he never sleeps there. He should have expected this, really. Four days without a warm body writhing underneath him is probably the longest dry spell Dan Egan has ever had. That’s the problem with… whatever this is. It’s not a  _ relationship  _ but it’s more than fuckbuddies. They sleep with other people, sure, but in the end, it always comes back down to them. Dan never feels the need to define it, and Jonah isn’t going to rock the boat now, when he’s having the best (and most frequent) sex he’s ever had in his life. 

He’s almost out the door before Dan speaks up. “I don’t have plans.” Jonah pauses and looks back, but there’s still that look in his eyes like something is wrong, like he’s been caught in the middle of something he wanted to keep secret. 

“You know I don’t care who you fuck, right?” He’s got really good at that lie over the last few months. So good, even he almost believes it. Almost. “As long as it’s not Selina. Not even I can stomach that.”

Dan rolls his eyes. “If I did have plans, I definitely wouldn’t cancel them for you.” But it’s vaguely unconvincing, partly because there were at least four opportunities in that sentence to throw in crap insult and yet Dan let them all slide. Jonah can’t remember the last time he’d seen him this preoccupied. 

“Good to know.” 

He’s not sure whether he’s meant to stay or leave now, so he stands, hunched slightly in the doorway to stop himself hitting his forehead on the frame. “I’m going to bed.” Dan announces, and Jonah still isn’t sure if that’s a dismissal or an invitation to join him. It’s only when Dan sticks his head back around the door and calls him a flaccid fuck-muppet that he knows he’s meant to stay, and, grinning, follows him into the bedroom.

Jonah strips off his suit immediately, not bothering to hang it properly, and slides into his side of the bed in just his boxers, relishing the soft, warm sheets against his skin after way too many hours spent sleeping on planes. Dan gets in beside him, leaving as much of a gap between them as possible (which, given Jonah’s arm span, isn’t actually that much), still dressed in the faded campaign t-shirt.

Dan always sleeps naked. 

“Why are you wearing that?” He asks, rolling onto his side to look at Dan better. Whatever it is that’s bothering him, it’s etched clearly on to his face, and  _ for fuck’s sake _ , either tell him what it is or let it go. 

“It’s cold.” He shrugs, and pulls the duvet around him tighter. He settles down facing him. Which is again, weird, because Dan Egan loves being the little spoon, and Jonah loves feeling every inch of Dan pressed against his chest, long limbs finally put to good use as he holds Dan close as they fall asleep. 

Yeah. It’s more than just fuck buddies.

“I kinda missed you.” Jonah says quietly, and regrets it immediately because fuck he’d only been away for thirty two fucking hours. Dan doesn’t reply, his eyes closed, and if he pretends to be asleep to avoid having to deal with whatever fucking problem is clearly bothering him, Jonah might just up and leave anyway. 

He’s not asleep though. A few seconds pass, and Dan responds with “You smell like a commercial airline.” 

Charming. 

They lie there, awake, separated by the two inches that the bed allowed, Dan’s face pressed into the pillow and Jonah staring at the ceiling. It’s five minutes before Dan speaks again. “I kinda missed you too.” He admits, still half shrouded in bedding, but Jonah can see the slightest pink tinge to his cheeks. 

And any idea that Jonah has of pushing any further on what stick it is exactly that Dan has jammed up his ass this time disappears in a puff of smoke because he could get by on those five words alone for weeks. He reaches out, intending to pull Dan closer because fuck he wants to feel the hard lines and sharp muscle of his body right now, wants to sink his mouth around Egan’s cock until the only noise that comes out of his mouth is incomprehensible babbling, utter bullshit mixed with gasps of his name because the broken desperate way that “ _ Jonah _ ” comes out of Dan Egan’s mouth is better than fucking twenty other people. 

But the second his hand touches the small of Dan’s back, he hisses in pain and jerks backwards, scrabbling with the sheets to stop himself toppling off the side of the bed as he tries to get further away. “What the fuck—” He questions, and now Dan’s face isn’t just flushed but a deep red, and he won’t meet Jonah’s eye. “Dan, what the fuck’s up with you tonight?” 

“Nothing.” He says quickly. Too quickly. 

“ _ Bullshit  _ it's nothing. Look if you don't want my ass here—”

“It's not that.” The words come almost as quickly as before, instinctive, desperate, and Jesus if he doubted before he knows for real now that there has to be something going on, because he doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve like this. As if every quick retort or biting insult he usually uses to hide his actual feelings has evaporated. 

“Then what is it? Is this you getting freaked out about my balls god damn it I knew this would happen I knew—” 

“It's not about your balls.” Dan sits up properly now, cross legged and staring straight across the room, not meeting Jonah's eye. “Or, well. Ball.” He smirks, and there's a flash of Dan back, just for a moment. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Promise you won't freak out?” 

He doesn't point out how dumb it is to ask someone to promise to something if they don't know what it is, and nods, because Dan is acting like a dick head and he's always curious about Dan's hidden weaknesses. 

He reaches over his head and pulls off the campaign t-shirt. Jonah's blood runs cold. Red lines criss cross over the expanse of Dan's back, raised and sore, stark against a backdrop of blotchy bruises in shades of purple, blue and brown. It's meticulous, ordered; every spot is discoloured and damaged, and there are even a few streaks of dried blood where the welts cut too deep. 

“Who did this to you?” Jonah says eventually. He wants to look away but he can't, the marks too vivid even in the half light of the bedroom. 

Dan's shoulders are tense, and he looks straight ahead, not making a noise, not meeting Jonah's eye. “Sidney Purcell.” 

“Oh, what the  _ fuck. _ ”

“Jonah, it's not…” 

“I'm going to rip that sloppy fucking asshole’s head off!” He fumes, ignoring the fact that Sidney Purcell scares the fuck out of him and that really, even Sidney Purcell would hammer him in a fight, and it probably doesn't look good for congressmen to attack people even if they are sub-human scumbags.

“Jonah…” 

“What the fuck does he have on you, Egan? Jesus, this is barbaric, it's—” The rest of his sentence falters as Dan shoves his tongue in his mouth. It's a basic trick, but every moment of tension between them, every awkward moment and stilted word is thrown into this kiss, driving every other thought out of Jonah's head. All he can concentrate on is Dan's lips, Dan's teeth catching on his tongue as his brain's screams for oxygen get ignored in favour of the hottest making out he'd had in months. It reminds him of the early days of whatever this is, the days where Jonah could still genuinely believe that he hated Dan Egan with every fucking cell in his body and the sex was  _ electric _ . Not that the sex isn't good now, but seeing Dan Egan debase himself as far as getting fucked by Jonah Ryan had truly been a beautiful sight.

When Dan finally pulls away, Jonah is still trying to process what just happened, and hands the advantage over to him. “He doesn't have anything on me, okay?” Dan says firmly, but Jonah is still remembering what words mean and can't respond. “I  _ asked  _ for it. I thought you'd be away for longer and it'd be less noticeable by the time you came back.”

What the fuck is going on? “You  _ asked…  _ Sidney Purcell to… to…” None of this makes sense in his head. 

“Jesus, Jonad.” Dan snaps impatiently. “You watch more porn than anyone I've ever met. Are you really telling me that you're not familiar with BDSM?” 

Jonah’s mouth goes dry. Of course he’s  _ familiar _ with it, but it’s… It’s a porn thing. It’s not a thing people actually do. Really. In real life. Right? It’s women in leather cracking whips. Gags and chains and whatever. It’s fantasy. It’s not Dan Egan sitting in front of him with a patchwork of abrasions across his back. It’s not DC’s grossest, slimiest lobbyist (and that’s a feat in itself) getting to see Dan Egan vulnerable and desperate. “Y-You…” He knows his eyes are wide, pupils blown because every bad porno he’s ever watched is resurfacing in his brain, the male star replaced with Dan’s broken voice, tied up and begging and— “Why Sidney Purcell?” He says eventually, because he doesn’t trust himself to think about Dan any more. Dan, always in control of everything, even the things he shouldn’t be able to control, giving that up to an asshole like Sidney Purcell. Jesus.

“Because he’s willing. And he’s good. And he doesn’t care about me.” Dan says simply. He pulls the shirt back on, wincing slightly as the fabric brushes against his skin. 

Jonah bites back what he really wants to say, that Sidney doesn’t  _ deserve  _ to get Dan like that. “He’s a  _ lobbyist. _ ” He says eventually. 

“I used to be a lobbyist.” Dan says. 

“Yeah, but he’s  _ evil. _ ” It’s better than ‘yeah, but I  _ love _ you’, but not much. What the fuck is wrong with him tonight? He’s barely holding it together. Dan just rolls his eyes and settles, carefully, back into his pillows. His mind is whirring, confused and intimidated and honestly kind of aroused, and he can’t look at Dan for more than a second. “Do you—” 

Dan cuts him off, speaking with emotionless, robotic words, staring straight ahead into space. “I’ve never had sex with him. It’s not about that. Sometimes I suck him off after, if we feel like it. I don’t have any feelings for him; in fact I don’t even like him. It helps me get out of my own head and refocus. Yes, it hurts. Yes, it turns me on. Yes, I’m a fucking freak, but I don’t need you to tell me that.” 

Jonah frowns. “You’re not a freak.”

Dan barks out a laugh, his eyes fluttering closed, head tipped back as if in prayer. When he opens them again, they are wet, like he’s fighting back tears. “Because that’s what you take away from that. Go to sleep, Jonad.” 

He ignores the jibe that is so overused now it’s almost a term of endearment. Hell, it’s practically a pet name; whenever someone else uses it, it feels like they are violating this  _ thing _ that they have. “I know you can’t help the fact that you were born an emotionally stunted human dildo, but we’re talking about this, Egan.” 

Dan doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t object either. Jonah climbs out of bed and heads to the bathroom, wetting a soft flannel and grabbing a tube from the medicine cabinet. “Shirt off. Lie on your stomach.” He says, wondering how this happened, how he became the sensible, mature one. 

“What are you—” 

“Making sure you don’t get a fucking infection, shit-brain.” 

“He didn’t break the skin.” Dan protests, but the streaks of blood on his back suggest otherwise and Jonah isn’t letting his fucking  _ I asked for this, I deserve this  _ schtick cause him any actual lasting damage. Eventually, he acquiesces, and throws the shirt aside, settling on his front, his strong broad shoulders tense, the tapestry of marks on full display. He works from top down, sponging down his shoulders and upper back as gently as he can, but Dan still hisses in pain at the pressure. “Jesus, Jonah—” 

“This might sting.” He warns, as he carefully smooths a little antiseptic cream on one of the gashes. Dan grunts, biting back as much noise as he can, because woe betide Dan Egan show a second of weakness even after being pulverised like a fucking steak. It doesn’t take long to clean him up — Dan is right that in most cases, the wounds didn’t break the skin, but his lack of regard for his own wellbeing is concerning nevertheless. “All done.” He says, sitting back on his heels, throwing the towel and cream aside.

Dan is red in the face, and, Jonah notices, hard. “Didn’t realise you’re a nurse now.” He grumbles. “You’re taking this better than I thought you would.” 

Jonah isn’t sure he’s taking it well at all, isn’t sure picturing Sidney beating the shit out of Dan is what he’s meant to take away from this, isn’t sure that finding the concept ridiculously hot is how he’s supposed to react. “However you get your kicks, I guess.” He says uneasily. 

“Yeah.” Dan agrees, but his voice is even less convincing than Jonah’s. “Thanks.” He settles back into bed, but doesn’t put the shirt back on. “M’going to sleep now.” He mutters, but it sounds like he’s already half there. Jonah watches him drift off before turning off the lamp, but sleep evades him, head full of  _ Dan  _ and  _ Sidney fucking Purcell  _ and who the fuck else knows about this? 

When he finally does drift off, his brain fills with images of those marks, each bruise each mark applied carefully, precisely, but Sidney Purcell is nowhere to be seen. Dan sitting pretty, naked, begging for another hit, and every time, Jonah complies. 

He wakes up at 3am, sneaks into the bathroom and gives in to his urges. It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time to come. “Fuck.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Dan gets up, is a grumpy asshole like he always is in the morning, drinks three cups of coffee and is slightly less of a grumpy asshole, swears at the news (not even he can avoid actual TV for that long), bitches about the latest bunch of idiots he works with, squeezes in a forty minute jog around DC and does half of the Post’s crossword before leaving for his first meeting, and throughout all of that, he makes no reference to the bombshell he dropped the previous night. If Dan had his way, it would never be mentioned again. 

But Jonah can’t put it out of his mind as easily as Dan can. Since his official schedule still thinks he’s in New Hampshire and it will take his office a few hours to fill his time back up with boring meetings about things he doesn’t understand, he digs out his laptop, opens Google Incognito, and settles in for some research. But he can’t read anything without his brain automatically filling in the blanks with  _ Dan _ . He jerks off twice in the first hour, every extra page he comes across planting a whole new fantasy in his head. 

Dan can fuck whoever he wants. Rationally, he knows this. He also knows that  _ he _ can fuck whoever he wants, too. That’s the arrangement. It’s no commitment. It’s not exclusive. The difference is, Jonah hasn’t wanted to fuck anyone else for months. Being a Congressman opened all sorts of doors that he couldn’t access before, even back when he had a White House badge and West Exec parking, but he doesn’t want the people who throw themselves at him any more. A year ago, he’d happily fuck someone in the full knowledge that they only wanted a cut of his (limited) power or status. Now, he turns down dinner invitations with  _ nines.  _ Rich nines. Rich nines with powerful fathers. People who wanted him for  _ his  _ influence, and not for Jeff Kane’s. 

It’s all he would have wanted, in a past life, but now all he wants is Dan motherfucking Egan. The one person who has never been impressed with his money, his influential uncle or his position. The one person who wants more than Jonah has to give. The one person he’ll never be enough for. 

He puts his laptop down, and rubs his eyes. He needs to get his mind off of this; Jonah can’t quite believe himself, but he reaches for the phone and calls Ben. “There’s no line of people waiting outside your office, Ryan. We basically have to fucking pay people to take meetings with you at the best of times, you impotent fuck.” 

“There must be something—” 

“If you even think about coming into this office and then spending the whole day whining like a little bitch that you’re bored, I will fucking run you down with my car and believe me, it will look like an accident. Stay home, play with yourself, I don’t care. You can come back and pretend to have a single fucking ounce of influence tomorrow.” 

Neither Ben or Kent respect him, and they don’t even pretend to. He'd fire them, but… well, they're both grossly overqualified for his office, and it's only the best for Jonah Ryan. Even if that is a depressed alcoholic and a terrifyingly efficient number crunching robot. (Any attempts to persuade Dan back onto his team are, as of yet, fruitless.) Ben hangs up before Jonah gets a chance to rip into him for such blatant insubordination; he's fucking in charge, god damn it. Ben Cafferty thinks he's so fucking great and he can't even get Jonah a meeting when he wants one. Literally, any meeting. He'd even take a rerun of the forty minutes of droning about _leaf peeping_ he had to endure last fall, if it took his mind off of Dan's bruised back, and the fire in his eyes as he dared Jonah to judge him for it.

Fuck it. If he's having a day off, he's having a proper day off. The only beer he can find in Dan's fridge is some pretentious craft ale which he knows for a fact that Dan doesn't like, but it's brewed in Idaho and the brewery is owned by the Governor of Idaho's mistress's husband and fuck knows when Dan needed a leg up in fucking Idaho but that's how he operates. Every single decision he makes is career driven, from his suits to his hook-ups to his choice brand of fucking toilet paper. He literally wipes his ass with his political connections. It's all just one more reason that Jonah knows, however much he claims otherwise, that he isn't done with politics. He's biding his time, waiting for a bigger fish to fry than Jonah's congressional office. Joke’s on Dan when he goes from freshman congressman to POTUS in record time. Whatever the record time is. He should look that up. Maybe Dan would make him a ten year plan, too. Maybe, in ten years, whatever  _ this _ is might feature. 

And then a thought occurs to him, beer in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. 

Sidney Purcell. Fuck. Is this just another contact? Has Dan lost his mind? Are these the ends he'll go to these days for a networking opportunity? DC is a fucked up city, and Dan's made it clear before that he'll do whatever is necessary to make it. Hell, the first time  _ they  _ fucked, it was strategic, but this is different. This is more than rushed, rough head in an EEOB broom closet, bred of mutual hatred and one-upmanship and a debilitating inability to back down from a challenge. Dan hates Sidney Purcell, sure, but this can’t be a hate-fuck. Dan hate-fucks for power, for point-scoring and for the opportunity to always remind the other person of it at the worst possible time. Purcell  _ Jackson Pollock _ -ing the fuck out of his back is the opposite of Dan making a power play. 

With no other way to distract himself besides drinking and  _ research _ , he finds himself online again. This time, he scrolls down further, avoids the blatant pornography, and ends up, within an hour, so deep into a reddit black hole that Jonah isn't sure he'll ever resurface. He learns about how to spank properly so it hurts the other person’s ass more than it hurts your hand. He learns about whips and crops and floggers and starts to match the description of the marks they make with the patterns decorating Dan's back.

Jonah is low key proud of himself when he realises he's hard again — he hasn't had a turn around this quick since college. This is some  _ just discovered Playboy  _ level shit, except a thousand times better because Dan is hotter than the fucking sun. It's only when he starts to come down from his orgasm, just a weak dribble of come in his fist but his heart pounding like he just ran a marathon, does he realise how much he needs to see it, wants Dan like that to himself. He doesn't know what he's doing or even if he'll get anything out of it, but there's no way Purcell gets something he doesn't. 

There's something about reddit that totally eliminates the ability to keep track of time, and Jonah doesn't know it's nearly eight until the door opens, and he hears Dan drop his keys in the bowl by the front door. Cracking three out in relatively short succession wipes it out of a guy, but the  _ research  _ is too interesting to not at least give his dick a few strokes from time to time. His clothes lay in a crumpled heap where he'd shucked them off in frustration hours ago, so that's the view Dan gets when he returns. Naked on the couch, hand on his dick, a couple of scrunched up tissues on the floor, having missed the bin. Jonah at least slams the laptop lid down on the kinky reddit threads, but Dan only raises an eyebrow. “Is there any food, or have you literally been jerking off all day?”

Jonah prays his face isn't as red as the heat he feels radiating from his cheeks might imply. “Um. I'll order in. What do you —”

“Chinese.” Dan sits down on the armchair instead of taking the seat next to Jonah on the couch, and suddenly his nudity makes him feel exposed, vulnerable. Weak. He reaches down, pulls sweatpants on over his semi erect dick, and pretends the tension in the room  _ isn't  _ suffocating. He calls their favourite Chinese and orders their favourite dishes, rattling off Dan's sesame chicken without bothering to ask. 

They pretty much sit in silence until the food arrives; small talk never has been their strong suit, and anything Jonah thinks of to say seems stupid, pointless in the face of the giant fucking proverbial GOP logo in the room. Dan’s barely half way through his chicken when he puts down his chopsticks and glares across at him. “Ask the fucking question. If it’s going to stop you looking like someone took a shit in your corn flakes, just ask the fucking question.”

“What do you get out of it?” He goes for eventually. “If it’s not about getting your dick wet, what’s the end-game?” Everything he read had come, in one way or another, back around to sex. People got up to stuff that Jonah, as a member of the U.S. House of Representatives and thus somewhat qualified (in his mind) to remark on the matter, is pretty sure would be legally classified as torture if it weren’t consensual, but it’s what people are into. He can understand that. He gets that some people are a little freaky in the sack. But if Dan and Purcell aren’t fucking (which he hopes to God is true because that’s an image that he’ll never be able to get out of his head) there must be something beyond getting beaten to shit being a turn on. 

Dan pushes his food aside completely, and rubs his face in his hands. “Look, this isn’t… If you breathe one word of this to anyone, you’re dead.” The words are flat, cold, and Jonah, who has faced many a death threat before (and in fact many a death threat from Dan Egan before) actually believes this one. “I’m not just talking about your pathetic excuse for a career in this swamp town, either. I mean, head on a stick outside your mom’s house. I will  _ kill you _ .”

“Who the fuck am I going to tell?” He snaps. Dan stares him down, and he eventually gives in. “Fine, fine. I promise, it doesn’t leave this room. Swear on my life.” 

Dan still doesn’t speak and every second that passes makes Jonah want to fill the silence more and more, the quiet between them building into roar neither could manage to speak over. “I get to give up control.” Dan says finally, the words stilted as his eyes stay fixed on a single spot of wooden flooring. It’s so quiet Jonah almost can’t hear, and Dan’s pasty Irish skin does nothing to disguise the flush of deep pink blooming across his cheeks. Usually, even in moments of weakness, Dan is defiant, but the humiliation of this admission makes him withdraw, shrink as small as he can to protect himself. 

Jonah never, ever,  _ ever  _ gets to see Dan vulnerable. He’s fucking gorgeous. 

“The pain, it…” He struggles to find the words to describe the feeling, a nervous foot jiggling on the floor. “It’s like it releases all the tension? Like everything stuck spinning around in my head is driven out with each hit until all I can feel is my skin burning and I can’t think properly any more. All that’s left to focus on is the pain. It’s  _ freeing _ , hitting the reset button.” He looks up, and his eyes are wet, and Jonah can’t quite comprehend how much he wants to make out with Dan Egan right now. He’s fucking  _ transcendental,  _ blotchy red skin and tear tracks aside. All Jonah wants is to hold him down and fuck him and feel his body react as each sensitive, raw wound scrapes against the mattress. See how loud he could make Dan scream. “You’re looking at me like I'm a freak again.” 

Jonah doesn’t try to hold him down, or to fuck him, because Dan is clearly not in the place for that right now and whatever everyone else might say he’s not a total asshole, but he does stand, cross the room in three long strides, and pull Dan into a long, hard kiss. “You’re not a freak.” He repeats when they separate, and if Jonah is being a little intense it’s because he means it. “You might be a lot of things, but you’re not a freak.”

“I—” 

“You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

Dan laughs under his breath, pushes away slightly, not hard enough to actually force him to move but Jonah acquiesces and gives him some space. “You’re  _ okay _ with this?” 

“I’m not crazy about the whole, Sidney Purcell of it all, but if you wanna fuck with evil, that’s your choice.”

“We don’t fuck.” 

“Figure of speech, Egan.” 

“ _ Fuck with evil  _ is not a figure of speech.” He’s smiling though, or at least not scowling any more (sometimes with Dan that’s as good as it gets). Dan looks up at Jonah from his position curled into the armchair, and rolls his eyes. “Jesus, can you sit down? It’s like a fucking solar eclipse in here.” 

He goes back to his food, but doesn’t jab quite so viciously at the chicken any more. Jonah tries to focus on eating, but there are a million questions he's dying to ask and his fork (chopsticks are for show-offs okay who the fuck wants to make food more complicated to eat it’s pointless and he will not stand for it) keeps getting stuck on the way to his mouth. 

“Seriously Jonad, I haven't seen you this distracted since that time Amy didn't wear a bra.” Hey, Dan would have been distracted too if he hadn't been… okay, doing his job. Whatever. Amy does stuff just to mess with him. “What's troubling your tiny, tiny brain now?” 

It's as close of an invitation as he's going to get to unleash the tide of questions building up all day, so he pushes his food aside and goes for it. “How did you and  _ him  _ start…  _ this? _ ”

“There are places people go, Ryan.” 

Jonah's eyes widen. “What, like brothels?” 

Dan rolls his eyes. “You watch too much TV, J. No, like exclusive, private membership clubs catering to  _ specific interests _ .” 

“In D.C.?” It seems unrealistic that in a city where a sex scandal can ruin your career (unless you're an old white guy, at least) there's a market for seedy underground kinky sex clubs. No one could possibly be stupid enough — except Dan, apparently — to actually be seen there. It's the kind of place the Leon Wests of the world expose just for fun on their days off from actual journalism.

Dan apparently understands his scepticism but doesn't share it. “Double edged sword.” He explains with a tight smile. “You expose someone for their extra-curriculars, and people are gonna ask what you were doing there in the first place. Plus, we're talking powerful people. It's very exclusive. Invitation only.”

“Then how the fuck did  _ you _ get in? I didn't realise being a former aide to a shit VP opened so many doors.”

Dan smirks. “Well, in case you didn't notice, Big Foot, I'm exceedingly pretty. I know it's something you've never experienced, but that _ definitely _ opens doors.” 

He refuses to give Dan the ego boost of responding to that; Jonah has complimented him enough for one day already. “Just a shame about your personality, then.” Jonah adds. Dan ignores him.

“Purcell saw me, bought me a drink, asked me what I was there for, took me home and beat the fuck out of me. Simple transaction.” Dan finishes his food and pushes the takeout container aside. “Want a beer?” He asks, getting to his feet. “It's Idaho or nothing, but…” Dan grabs two from the fridge, hands one over, and stretches out next to Jonah on the couch. “I didn't expect you to take it this well.” 

“Dude, this is some triple X shit. You make my porn look tame and trust me there's some pretty nasty stuff on there. Like, really gross.” He takes a swig of beer, foul as it is, for courage. “You like to get whipped or whatever. Big fucking deal. Takes more than that to shake me, Egan.” It’s not exactly true, but he’s not shaken in the way Dan might have feared. He's not in a place to judge Dan for his particular brand of fucked up, after all.

Dan, as practiced as he is after a life, a career faking it in the Ugly Man’s Hollywood, does a really shitty job of hiding his surprise. “You're… in to it?”

Jonah shrugs, because there's definitely such thing as being  _ too _ keen in this situation, but like yeah he really is.

“You know it’s been like,” Dan pauses for a second in thought. “Three days since you last fucked me?” 

Jonah knows. God he knows. “Yeah, you’re going to have to wait a few more hours.” 

Dan actually scowls. “If you’re so fucking worried, we can do it doggy, I’m not fussy at this point. It’s alright for you—you get to be the only single, not practically on his death-bed congressman in the house. It’s like a free pass for sevens without even having to try.” 

“Yeah, because I put my dick away so many times in the thirty two hours I spent almost entirely either on a plane or stuck in a cab with  _ Ben, Kent and Richard. _ ” Jonah doesn’t point out that he hasn’t fucked on a trip in months. Hasn’t fucked in DC in months unless the person’s name happens to be Dan Egan. That information, he’s keeping to himself, though. 

Dan smirks up at him like he thinks he’s got him cornered. “Come on,  _ Jonad. _ Put that dick to use for once.” 

“Kind of the problem.” He grins. Jonah would be embarrassed about the fact he jerked off so many times already today that it’s a biological impossibility for him to get it up again, but it’s annoying Dan and that makes it worth it. He gestures over at the scrunched up tissues discarded haphazardly around the bin. “Little J’s all done for the day.” 

“Jesus, you’re disgusting.”

He shrugs. “I can suck your dick instead, if that would make you feel better?” 

“Go fuck yourself.” He responds, but he’s already thrown the empty beer bottle aside and is unbuttoning his pants, the perfect tailoring clinging to his ass and drawing attention from every damn person on K Street, gender notwithstanding. That Jonah gets to  come home go to Dan’s place and put his hands on  _ this  _ still feels like a dream sometimes. He lifts his hips and pushes the fabric down his legs, pooling at his ankles, and Jonah slides to the floor, kneeling between his thighs. Even with Dan on the couch — and it’s a pretty high couch, as far as these things go— Jonah has to crouch over to get his mouth anywhere near Dan’s dick. He slides his hands slowly up Dan’s thighs, feeling each tense knot of muscle melt under his hands as they got closer to his crotch, still covered by tightly fitting boxer briefs. The outline is visible clearly through them, thick and starting to harden, and Dan gasps as Jonah presses his mouth to the bulge. “C’mon, J,” He tuts, head tipped back against the couch cushions. “Not all of us had the luxury to jerk off eight times already today.” 

Jonah doesn’t miss how he shifts just slightly, moving pressure on to a less tender part of his back. That shouldn’t be as hot as it is. “Three times.” He corrects, and his fingers dip under the waistband, threatening to pull them down but not actually making the move. Dan might be playing it cool but there's a damp spot on his underwear that's not just from his tongue. He's so fucking wet for him,  _ Jesus,  _ so horny already. 

Dan arches his hips to let Jonah yank his briefs down too and his cock, hard and darkened red, curls up against his stomach, contrasting against the dark blue tie that he never quite got around to removing. It’s a  _ Look _ , honestly, Dan’s professional exterior deconstructed into pure debauchery, too desperate for a mouth on his erection to even get undressed. His fingers clench in Jonah’s hair like a warning, holding his head down close to his crotch in case he gets any ideas of taking his sweet time, but Jonah wants to taste as much as Dan needs to come. 

He wraps his lips around the head, bitter pre-come hitting his tongue as it dips into the slit. It’s good, though, it’s  _ Dan _ , and Jonah might never admit this to the guy’s face but he’s actually grown to like the taste. He sinks his mouth down slowly, Dan’s hand still in his hair tight, guiding him to where he’s meant to be. It only takes a few gentle bobs, a little further each time, for his lips to reach his fingers, wrapped around the base of Dan’s cock. Jonah tries to pull off but Dan’s grip holds him there, his mouth full, tongue trying to work the length as much as he can. A trail of saliva escapes his lips and drips down his chin but he doesn’t give a fuck as every twist of his wrist, every flick of his tongue draws a deep, desperate moan from the back of Dan’s throat. 

He’s close already but Jonah has no intention of rushing this. Dan’s an open book when he’s this turned on, guttural and gasping as he edges closer to orgasm, and Jonah’s a fucking master at holding him on the brink of pleasure until all Dan can do is swear and make death threats until he gets to come. He can pretend all he wants with his hand in Jonah’s hair, but—

Yeah okay how the hell did it take him so long to realise that Dan is into some kinky shit? It’s basically par for the course at this point. 

Dan keens as Jonah swallows carefully around his dick, his clenched fingers loosening enough for Jonah to pull off slightly, bobbing his head as he follows his lips with his hand. “ _ Fuck _ , Jonah, come on—” He grits his teeth, stares at the ceiling instead of the man kneeling between his spread legs. “You have one fu-fucking job, ple _ ase. _ ” 

He’s shorter than average, thick, no match for Jonah’s giant fucking mouth and basically non-existent gag reflex, and without the fist in his hair attempting to direct him, Jonah can deep throat like a fucking pro. The smell of Dan’s skin — musky, masculine, just a hint of sweat — fills his nose as his dick presses against the back of his throat, muscles constantly working around it as he swallows. It’s enough to provoke a high, breathy moan from Egan that’s close enough to a whine for Jonah to feel smug about it. “Doing okay there?” He jibes when he next comes up for air, but Dan is too far gone to respond verbally, opting instead for an ineffectual kick in the thigh. Jonah licks a wide, flat tongue along the underside of his dick in response, hitting every sensitive spot on the way like they’re fucking mapped out for him, and Dan is  _ writhing _ , practically thrusting into Jonah’s mouth. 

“Fuck  _ fuck  _ J—” His hips stutter as he comes, just when Jonah pulls off to taunt him some more. Come hits his open mouth, his chin, a bit on his nose, and Dan looks torn between apologising and laughing. “It suits you.” Dan grins, but the smile disappears when Jonah licks his lips, catching the streak of come across his mouth and making an obvious show of swallowing. “God, you're gross.” He says, but it's with warmth in his voice, _ fondness  _ even. Dan breaks eye contact immediately, glancing over at the muted TV to CNN rolling news as if that'll take it back. 

Jonah wipes his face, chucking the tissue to join the others near the bin, and moves back to the couch, shaking off the cramp in his legs and ache in his back that is the price of sucking Dan Egan’s below average in every regard dick. “That make up for it?” He asks, stretching his legs out in front of him, because the couch is too small for him to sprawl across lengthways. 

Dan nods, kicks his feet up so they’re lying across Jonah’s lap, cozying up into the cushions. “Your fucking giant mouth was made to swallow dick.” He comments, as if that’s a compliment in some way.

“Deep throating isn’t hard when you’re sucking a micro-penis.” 

“It’s slightly smaller than average.” He fails at keeping the indignation from his tone, which only makes Jonah smirk wider. He can just picture it, fifteen year old Dan Egan sat on his bed with a ruler, desperately justifying it to himself. He can’t handle being below average at anything. 

Dan needn’t have worried, really. He knows how to use what he has, which is infinitely more valuable. Not that he’d ever admit that. Complimenting Dan Egan is a dangerous activity. 

They fall into a comfortable silence, each of them tapping away on their phones, only an occasional tut or quiet snort of laughter coming from Dan as he probably worked through his rapidly refilling email inbox. Jonah checks his and sees an email from Netflix and something that is clearly trying to fraudulently sell him life insurance and not much else. He doesn’t get that many emails anymore, not since Kent insisted it’s better for all involved if he has minimal contact with his constituents after a couple of… um,  _ incidents _ . It’s not his fault people are stupid, okay? He’s way too busy with important things to deal with little quibbles about maple syrup and whatever the fuck else mattered to these people. 

Now he can pay someone else to say nice things in response while promising nothing actually consequential. Being a Congressman is great.

“J?” Dan asks, and Jonah looks up from playing Angry Birds, surprised to see him looking less than cocky and sure of himself for once. Like he’s worried. Like he’s worried that Jonah is just waiting for an opportunity to bolt from this particular brand of messed up. “We’re okay, right?” The hint, so close to a confirmation that Dan is worried this  _ thing  _ might be over, doesn’t taste as sweet as Jonah thought it would. He nods, not quite trusting his voice not to crack or his mouth to vomit out something so ridiculously sappy that he’d never live it down. 

Of course they’re okay. It would take something spectacular to change that now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU PULL IT OUT TO COME ON HER TITS 'COZ YOU, YOU THINK ITS GONNA MAKE YOU FEEL ALIVE, BUT IT DOESNT MATTER WHERE YOU COME, AMES, YOU KNOW... IT JUST DOESNT. IT JUST... IT DOESNT.
> 
> dan egan everyone, what can i say


	3. Chapter 3

The New Hampshire trip gets rearranged for the following week. Sure, when Jonah wants his schedule busy, there’s not a person to come in and talk to him, but when the last thing he wants is to go out of town, he’s free for Ben to send him wherever the fuck anyone wants a bite of him. Four days in New Hampshire when all he wants to be doing is making Dan scream.

It’s been happening a lot lately, since Dan’s little _revelation_. Not that anything particularly different has been happening — Jonah can’t figure out how to broach the subject without Dan freezing up or changing the conversation immediately, and it’s driving him up the wall. The bruises had faded remarkably quickly, so he doesn’t even get to run his hands across the marks any more, pretend that he’d put them there, pretend he had Dan writhing and desperate and vulnerable under his hand.

And now he’s spending four days in New Hampshire, knowing that Dan is back in DC, having his ass handed to him, literally, by Sidney Purcell. He tries not to think about it too much, but sometimes his head betrays him. Does Dan let Purcell into his apartment, into his bed, like he only so reluctantly did Jonah? Or does he go to Purcell’s offices, or his apartment even? Jonah can’t imagine Sidney Purcell doing anything as normal as sleeping or eating or owning an apartment. He probably lives in a cave somewhere, stewing up frogs in a cauldron or something similarly creepy.

Dan kisses him goodbye, a brutal, almost possessive kiss, as if warning him not to sleep with some campaign intern while he’s out here. A Poli-Sci co-ed wanting a taste of a real D.C. player or whatever. He’s not sure what’s more out of touch on Dan’s part: that he thinks he has the right to be possessive when it suits him, or that he really thinks it’s necessary.

The plane lands with no problems — the snow has cleared, or so he’s told, because it still looks pretty fucking snowy when he descends the steps. Jonah’s forgotten what winters in New Hampshire are like, avoiding the place as much as he reasonably can. He wraps his scarf tighter around his neck, the smell of Dan’s cologne wafting into his nostrils. It’s almost _hyper_ -masculine, like someone had thrown every “manly” scent they could find into a bottle and called it a day. It’s very _Dan_ because Dan is the only person who doesn’t recognise that wearing cologne is in fact the exact opposite of manliness by its very essence. He shouldn’t like the smell of it. He doesn’t, in isolation, but now the stupid overwhelming fumes are forever linked with Dan’s sweat and come and sex. It’s sex, mainly.

Jesus, it’s fucking Pavlovian.

“Congressman, it’s an honour to meet you.” A woman in a long dark coat hurries forward as soon as they hit the arrivals lounge, and holds her hand out to shake. His handshake has been perfected after a disastrous campaign stop where Dan told him he had claw machines for hands, and Jonah showed him just how co-ordinated he could be when he wanted to be later that evening, but Ben still looks on warily as he handles the situation perfectly competently, thank you very much.

She continues to talk at him and he just nods randomly, not really listening, hoping that they fall somewhere close to the right places. Ben doesn’t look ready to murder yet, so he can’t be doing too bad of a job. He gets into a car waiting outside the airport and tries to listen to the conversation around him, but his brain is back in D.C. and honestly with the whole _thing_ that happened in the interim, he can’t even remember what the point of this trip is any more. He texts Kent, hoping for a quick summary. He doesn’t reply, but the look that crosses his face says everything. Whatever. If Kent Davison wants to find a better job, nothing is stopping him. Grumpy fucking asshole.

The car arrives at wherever the car is going to and Jonah still has no idea what he’s meant to be doing and his useless staff are too busy annoying him to do their fucking jobs. A few people are hanging around outside when he climbs out, his limbs too long and uncoordinated to manage things like getting out of low cars gracefully, and maybe he slams the door unnecessarily hard but why the fuck do cars have to be so fucking difficult to get out of it’s a fucking joke and—

“Congressman Ryan, this is Ellie.” The airport woman says, directing him deftly away from the car so the driver could get it out of his reach. “She’s going to be assisting you during your trip, so if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Ellie is the exact person Dan’s weirdly loaded kiss warned him against. She’s short, pretty, long dark hair tied up neatly in a high ponytail, every curve accentuated in what is probably her one good, expensive work dress. She’s hot. There’s no two ways about it — she’s hot. She smiles at him warmly, holding her hand out to shake, and Jonah knows he could fuck her if he wanted to.

Sure enough, as the day draws to a close, he sees Ellie across the hotel bar, walking toward him. He might not be surprised but he feels almost disappointed. Ellie's good. She's smart and efficient and she always knows the name of whoever he's talking to when he's not paying attention — he finally understands the value of the monkey Selina has following her around. Ellie doesn't need to be screwing representatives to get ahead. “Hey, Congressman.” She says, sitting down beside him with a bright smile. She's changed our of the fitted dress into black jeans and a jumper, and the new outfit actually suits her much better.

This is a bad idea.

When she orders a drink, she takes ID out without being asked for it. “Places like this never believe that I'm 22.” She explains, but it's not exactly a subtle way to drop in just how of-age she might be. Hell, it's one of the oldest tricks in the book. Ellie’s got that twinkle in her eye that says she’s done this before.

Maybe not looking for a first taste of D.C. then.

He could say he’s spoken for, and she might believe him. She might believe he has a secret, steady relationship with a nice girl back in D.C., and forget this ever happened. He gets as far as “Sorry, but—” when his words break off. Dan is back in the city, fucking whoever he can put his hands on, getting beat up by Sidney Purcell, whatever. Dan wouldn’t hesitate. Dan would be fucking Ellie before she’d even opened her mouth, just because she’s here, she’s willing and because he could.

So he offers to pay for her gin and tonic instead, fumbling for change in his pockets because this backwater shithole doesn’t take Apple Pay, and she thanks him with a brush of her fingers against his hand.

Fifteen minutes later, she invites herself up to his room and he doesn’t stop her. They are always enthusiastic, these small town social climbers, sucking dick as if their futures depend on it, but he doesn’t enjoy it like he usually does, doesn’t get that kick from seeing the hungry look in their eyes as they sink their mouths around him. It just feels weird, guilty, despite the fact he’s not doing anything wrong. He fucks her, because he’s hard already and asking her to leave at this point would be rude, but he hates himself for how little he gets out of it.

Despite the fact that it’s his room, Jonah is the one to leave early in the morning, leaving Ellie asleep. Leave, pretend that it never happened. Never discuss it again. He finds Ben and Kent already in the hotel restaurant, a pile of toast and an enormous amount of coffee as they discuss important political things. They fall silent pretty fast when he arrives at the table, pulls out a chair and grabs a slice of toast. “Morning.” He says brightly, stuffing the toast in his mouth. Kent frowns slightly but doesn’t say anything. “Whose tiny minds are we blowing today?”

When Ellie emerges an hour or so later, a fresh outfit and neatly curled hair, he doesn’t meet her eye.

*

He gets an Uber back to his apartment the minute they land back in D.C. It’s cold — not just temperature wise, although his boiler is temperamental and inefficient and it’s freezing out — more than anything it just feels empty. There’s an old campaign poster on the wall in the hallway, instructing its readers to vote for Jonah Ryan under a light layer of dust. Mail has built up on the doorstep, mainly copies of the Washington Post subscription he took out so it looks like he’s up to date on current affairs, and like he doesn’t get all of his news from Twitter or excitable WhatsApp messages from Richard which he never responds to. He should probably cancel it, or have the address changed to Dan’s place. On second thought, definitely cancel it. Dan would freak out if he sent his mail there. He freaked out when he left a toothbrush there. They’re just about came to an agreement on deodorant when Jonah pointed out someone might notice if he smelled like Dan all the time.

Jonah leaves condoms and lube at Dan’s too, but for some reason, that’s never been a problem.

He starts to make headway on the mountain of mail, sorting a bunch of bills he forgot to pay and making a separate stack to give to someone at the office tomorrow, get one of his monkeys to deal with it. Turns out he’s behind on rent as well. Sometimes he forgets he even has his own apartment. Jonah doesn’t remember the last time he slept here.

His cell buzzes with a new message, and expecting it to be Richard, opens it without caution. It’s not Richard. It’s Dan, but it’s too late, and the message has already been marked read. Goddamnit.

_ > Thought you were coming back tonight _

He wants to ignore it anyway because he can’t face Dan right now, but his body doesn’t co-operate with his brain, and he types a response automatically.

_ < i did _

_ > Come over? _

_ > I’m bored and your place is a shithole and I want you to fuck me _

He’s not going over there. He’s not going over. He’s going to get a beer and sit down on his old, lumpy couch and watch something on whatever channels he pays for and never uses and he’s not going to think about Dan Egan. He doesn’t want to lie to him about his trip, about Ellie, but he also doesn’t want to tell the truth.

Once he’s dug the remote out from underneath a pile of old, gross take out containers (how long have these been here? He’s amazed they haven’t started their own eco-system yet) he flips from CNN to some shit late night chat show and cracks open a beer. An actual beer. A beer that’s not from someone’s basement in fucking Idaho.

He finishes it quickly, and opens another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

There’s a knock at the door. If he were less tipsy he might have guessed who it is, knocking on his door at 2am given that there aren’t many people who have the access code for the front gate. But he is drunk, embarrassingly so for only five beers, and the dots don’t connect until he wrenches the door open and sees Dan standing there, damp from the drizzle determined to turn the city into even more of a swamp.

“Can I h-” A burp interrupts his words. Dan wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Can I help you?” Attempt two. Second time lucky. Dan pushes him aside with little difficulty.

“Sure, come on in.” He adds sarcastically, kicks the door closed.

“What’s your problem, Jonad?” He snaps, and it’s a bit rich, really, that Dan’s asking what _his_ problem is when he’s the one who travelled to the other side of the capital to bang on his door in the middle of the night.

Jonah scoffs, wishes Dan’s eyes hadn’t drifted to the empty bottles by the couch but it’s not like he’s _drunk_ drunk. “You came all the way over here because I didn’t answer your texts?” The look on Dan’s face as the penny drops is priceless. Like he didn’t quite realise what that said until now, that he traipsed across the city in the dead of night because he’s getting ghosted by _Jonah Ryan._ “More like what’s your problem, Egan?”

Dan scoffs, rolls his eyes, but he’s on the back foot. He doesn’t really know why he’s here either. Jonah steps closer, almost chest to chest — or, well, head to chest because he is so fucking small. They glare at each other for a second before Dan starts to kiss him. Furiously. Angrily. More than the possessive kiss when he left, Dan forces his tongue past Jonah's mouth, fucking into his throat, biting down hard enough on Jonah’s lower lip to hurt a _lot_ . When he finally banks off, Jonah is gasping for breath. “ _Jesus—”_ He chokes out, shoving Dan hard, sending him staggering a pace or so back.

“You're my problem, Ryan. Whatever the fuck you think this is—”

“I fucked a girl in New Hampshire.”

He doesn't mean to blurt it out like that but he's not taking it back now. Dan opens his mouth, and closes it again, and opens it again, face going blotchy red. Anger looks good on him. Most things look good on him. He's just unfairly hot. “Good for you.” He says eventually, a level of bravado even Jonah can read as painfully fake. He's jealous. The very thought makes his dick just a little bit harder and he can't help himself.

“You shoulda seen her, Dan. Perky little tits, amazing ass…” That tell tale vein twitches in Dan’s neck as the colour rises in his face. His mouth is forced into an uncomfortable grimace that Jonah assumes is supposed to be something somewhat neutral, but it’s not very convincing. “Your type. You would’ve liked her.”

“Anyone willing to fuck you is the opposite of my type.” He spits. It would be more hurtful if Dan isn’t clearly, _desperately_ trying to jump on his dick right now. “I'd never fuck someone with such shit taste.”

Jonah barely has to move to crash their mouths together again, more of a battle than a kiss. When he pulls away, just enough to draw breath, Dan is practically panting, eyes solid black.

Yep. It's happening.

He yanks Dan's sweater over his head, the stupid piece of shit getting stuck under his chin before he can get it off. Dan shoves sweatpants down his legs — when was the last time Jonah saw Dan in _sweatpants_ — and he hasn't bothered with underwear. And he's hard. And naked. And fucking delectable.

He spins him around, slams him against the corridor wall, Dan's cheek smooshed against that old campaign poster. He doesn't give a fuck if it hurts — he is going to sink his fucking teeth into every mark that asshole Purcell dared put on Dan Egan’s body.

There's only one problem with that plan. “What?” He says, stepping back to examine him better. Dan growls, shoves his hips backwards as if attempting to literally fuck himself onto Jonah's cock. “Your back—”

“We're not still doing this, Jesus fuck it's healed you asshole.” Dan moans. “Fuck me or I will fuck you _up,_ Ryan.”

It's healed. Like, other than the last traces of one of the deeper cuts, there's nothing but clean, pale flesh. “You didn't—”

“Jonah…” He growls, and he sounds dangerous, like he might actually flip and take out an entire street in the sociopathic fit of rage he's been threatening since the day they first met if he doesn't get fucked right now. Jonah is going to come back to this later. For now, he spits on two fingers, and shoves them mercilessly into Dan’s ass.

He shouts out in a good kind of pain, and Jonah covers his mouth with his free hand. “Shut the fuck up, dick head.” He hisses, pumping his fingers roughly, making Dan's body adjust to fit him. “I'm on very good terms with my neighbours and I don't need you ruining that for me.”

He adds a third finger, and Dan moans through the makeshift gag, and even Jonah can feel it's almost too much, tight and hot and not quite wet enough, but Dan is thrusting his hips against his wall, leaving a trail of pre-come in his wake. “Lube is in my bedroom.” He says reluctantly, because he really kind of does want to fuck Dan right here with a giant poster of his own face watching them, clad in the ugly nerdy outfit Dan picked out that basically won them that first congressional race. “Wallet. In my jacket.” Jonah snatches it off the floor and rummages around for it, finding a couple of sachets of lube and a condom tucked next to a couple of twenties and a Starbucks loyalty card.

Wasting no time, he wraps up and tears open the packet of lube with his teeth, squirting the liquid onto his fingers. He makes a show of spreading it on his cock, giving himself a few loose pumps and exaggerating his reaction. “Jonah if I don’t get a dick in me in the next five seconds—” He spits, twisting to glare at him over his shoulder, and yeah, yeah okay. Spreading the last drips of lube over his cock, Jonah pulls Dan's hips up into a position that is infinitely easier for him and infinitely more painful for Dan, and pushes in one smooth motion.

He's so tight, unbelievably tight really for the amount of time Dan spends stuffed full of the most powerful dick Washington has to offer, and it's like the sex equivalent of the free bar at the Inaugural Ball. He pulls out slowly, relishing the guttural gasps coming from under him as Dan’s hole clenches around his dick, trying to hold on to him. Jonah pulls all the way out, because Dan is so wound up it sounds like he might actually cry if he doesn’t get off soon and fuck does it want to see that. “Jonah you cock sucking pathetic come stain motherfucker—” It's pretty weak as far as Dan's insults go, and Jonah only grins as he scrabbles against the wall, trying to find something to grip on to.

“Don’t tear my fucking poster.” Jonah warns, slamming his hips forward as hard as he can, and Dan stops his half hearted attempts to hold himself up, his cheek pressed flat against the wall as Jonah fucks him relentlessly. His fingers bite into Dan’s shoulder, pressing hard enough to leave bruises the next morning, the mark of his hand branded into his skin, but Dan doesn’t mind— or perhaps doesn’t register— the pain. He is able to handle much more, that’s for sure.

The only sex he’s had in four days is that one unsatisfying lay in New Hampshire, so it doesn’t take him long to come, biting down hard on that sweet spot where Dan’s neck meets his shoulder. He isn’t far behind, only a few quick jerks until he follows suit. “Fuck—” Dan mutters as the last feeble spurts of come splatter up Jonah’s wall. “Did you just _bite me_?”

Jonah pulls off the condom, tosses it aside and grabs Dan’s sweater — the closest thing he could find — wiping himself clean before throwing that away too. “Yep. And you spunked like, immediately, so don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”

Dan’s eyes follow the now come smeared sweater with a slight shake of his head. Knowing Dan, it was probably over priced and could only be dry cleaned and Jonah literally couldn’t give a shit. “I never said I didn’t like it.” He says quietly, slumping against the wall, his sweats still bunched up around his ankles, looking a complete fucking mess. “You said something, before. About…” He gestures over his shoulder, the universally recognised symbol for ‘my back’, apparently.

Jonah sits down next to him because it would be pretty weird to just stand looming over him and try and hold a conversation. Not that conversation is what he really wants right now, but that’s where they are. “Oh. Right. I just… assumed.”

“Assumed?”

He shrugs. “That you’d seen _him_ while I was away.” He can’t bring himself to utter the guy’s name, fucking asshole.

“Him?”

“You know.” He says, and makes a bad Indiana Jones impression, cracking an imaginary whip, sound effect and all. Dan needs to stop replying with one word questions.

“Purcell? Nah. Only for special occasions.” He glances at Jonah for a fraction of a second, scoffs, and looks away. “I knew you were lying when you said it didn’t bother you.” He yanks his sweatpants back up his legs and gets up, reaching for his sweater only of course to find it smeared with come and lube. “You’re paying for the dry cleaning.” He tosses it at Jonah’s head but it falls short by a foot or so.

“It _doesn’t_ bother me!” He scrambles to his feet, nearly knocking over a small cabinet in his haste, and Dan raises an eyebrow. “I’m not lying. You can like whatever freaky shit you want. I don’t care.”

Dan has had enough, leans down to pick up his jacket and zips it over his bare chest. When he looks up, Jonah can see his cheeks flushed red even in the low light, but whether from anger or embarrassment he isn’t sure. “Then what the fuck is your problem, Jonad?”

“ _He_ ’s the problem!”

Dan stares at him for a long second, then picks up his wallet from where Jonah discarded it on the floor earlier and makes for the door. “Go fuck yourself, Jonah.” He says flatly, a hand already opening the door to let himself out. “Go. Fuck. Yourself.”

“But he’s… No, Dan, shit, fuck, come on — wait!” He manages to slam the door shut before Dan can get outside. “He doesn’t deserve you like that. That’s what I was trying to say. He doesn’t—” His words trail away at the sight of Dan’s expression, and not sure what else to say, steps aside.

But Dan stops in the doorway, literally freezes one foot out the door, and turns to look at him. The rage in his face has all but evaporated, although the patchy redness in his pale cheeks remains. He's not angry any more, no. That expression Jonah knows all too well. The look Dan gets when the last piece of the puzzle falls in to place, the image before him suddenly clear and obvious. “You're _jealous.”_ He breathes. Jonah's protests, as vulgar and vehement as he can make them on short notice,go ignored as Dan shakes his head in gleeful disbelief. “You are! You're fucking jealous!”

“I'm not — I don't… I mean, I…” Fuck it. “Look, I can beat the everloving shit out of you until you've got whatever it is you're looking for. God damn it I've been wanting to beat the shit out of you for five god damn years. But I'll also make sure you don't get hurt worse than you mean to or… or…”

His words trail off when he clocks the look on Dan's face and also realises that he is making whatever this declaration is while entirely naked. Dan closes the door, shutting out the freezing wind that is making Jonah's junk go numb. “It's late and you covered my sweater in jizz. I'm sleeping here tonight.”

It's as close to a _maybe_ as Jonah could hope for, really. Like, he didn't immediately get shot down.

So.

Yeah.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey Dan?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you ever think about doing it for fun?” 

Dan looks up from his iPad, because this is how they spend their Sunday mornings now, sat in Dan's fancy ass kitchen with the news on in the background working away independently together. “Think about doing what, Jonad?” 

It has been two months since the abandoned New Hampshire trip, and he's not sure why, but Jonah kind of expected Dan to have become wound tight enough in two months to require… well, whatever release he got from kinky beatings. Congress is in turmoil (as usual), the Meyer administration is a total clusterfuck (as usual) and yet however in demand Dan gets as an ex-Meyer insider strategic mind blah blah blah has been, it is apparently still within his ability to cope. Jonah takes one look at his expression and considers, seriously considers taking the out Dan left for him. Dan wants him to back down. Dan doesn't want to talk about it. “The kinky sex shit, Egan. Obviously.” 

Yeah. He's not backing down. 

“Is this your way of saying our sex is too vanilla for you?” 

He's not sure their sex could ever be classed as vanilla. It may have cooled over time from pure visceral loathe-sex to the more common ‘I hate that I don't hate you anymore’ sex but whatever, that still involves a few bruises and a lot of swearing. Dan doesn't want to have this conversation. Fuck, this is one of few things about Dan that Jonah actually understands. This chain of events, the need to destress, relax, makes sense to everyone except Dan. And hey the methods might but unconventional but if they work? 

“For all the shit you talk about sex, you’re  _ embarrassed _ by this? Kinky shit is basically mainstream now. Every fucking Midwest suburban housewife is getting spanked by her fat moron husband,  _ Fifty Shades _ style. You're the only one who has a prob—”

“Shut up.” He snaps. 

“Or is it because you're still biding your time in DC? Dan Egan could never be done with politics. You think it'll get out and hurt your congressional chances?”

“Nothing says electable like kinky sex stories.”

“Like I'm gonna say anything.” Jonah scoffs. As much as Dan might choose to forget it, he is actually an elected representative too. “You trust Purcell to keep your secrets more than me?”

Dan doesn't say anything. 

“Seriously?”

He finally, finally looks up, but Jonah can't read him. “Collateral damage.” 

“You could take me down with you too.” He says, although he's not quite sure why he's reminding Dan of this fact. But Dan doesn't reply, just pokes uncomfortably at his iPad, his pale skin reddening just a little. He wouldn't do it, Jonah realises, and that tiny, impossible to quash part of him that is totally 100% irrevocably pathetically hopelessly in love with Dan Egan  _ sings.  _ Because that's affection, right?  _ I probably wouldn't tell FOX News that you get off on spanking me.  _ That’s the closest to showing affection Dan has got in four years. “You really think I'd do that to you?” 

Dan shrugs, stares down at his coffee like he can't see it. Yeah okay this is getting weird now. It's always unnerving when Dan has nothing to say, the sharp words usually flying thick and fast just to fill any gaps in conversation. “No, I guess not.” He manages eventually, resisting every syllable. 

“You're an asshole.” He can put up with a lot of things. He can put up with all the other people Dan sleeps around with and being on the receiving end of barbs when work isn't going well and he can put up with Dan never wanting anyone to see them in public together despite the fact that they might just be the worst kept secret in the whole of DC. He can't put up with Dan sitting there, tapping away at his iPad, saying that he trusts  _ Sidney Purcell _ more than him. “You really are a massive asshole.” And then he laughs. Because what else is there to do in this situation but laugh? 

“This isn’t news.” Dan snaps, flicking the volume up a few notches on CNN. 

Jonah snatches the remote from his hand, and puts it on mute. “You still tell yourself you do this for political sway, don't you? Another contact, like your shit fucking Idaho beers and recycled North Dakotan toilet paper. That's how you sleep at night. An in with congress, on the whatever you fucking want bullshit committee, _that's_ what you tell yourself. We _live_ _together_ , Dan!” 

“We don't li—” 

“I’ve slept at my apartment like three times in the last two months.” 

Dan scowls, but doesn't argue the point. “Just say what you need to say, Jonah.” 

_ I want to have kinky sex with you and hold your hand and kiss you in public and go to boring political functions with you as my date without you hitting on interns the whole time so you don't look too gay. I want to be furious at you and have a loud argument about carpet samples and have really hot angry sex and realise later that it doesn't matter what colour the carpet is as long as we're together because somehow, some fucker with a sick sense of humour made us weirdly perfect for each other.  _

That's what he wants to say. What he actually says is “I love you.” Which isn't what he planned to say at all, but he can't take it back now. There’s no returning from that. Maybe he can get Ben to fake some reason he needs to be in New Hampshire immediately and Jonah can live out his days in the fucking woods somewhere, and never have to look at Dan again. 

He risks a glance, because too many seconds have passed in silence now and there’s nothing he can say that won’t somehow make this situation worse, and Dan is just… staring at him. All trace of that smug grin is wiped away, but Jonah can’t read the expression that remains. Has it been thirty seconds? Five minutes? An hour? 

“You…” Dan says slowly, testing each letter, each syllable on his tongue before he verbalises it. “You’re fucking with me, right? You  _ love  _ me?” 

_ Yes! Yes, I’m fucking with you! Of course I’m fucking with you! Jonah Ryan doesn’t love people, certainly not fucking bitchy, arrogant pretty boys with a perfect ass and a whole fucking headful of issues and— _

Yeah, maybe if he’d actually said some of that out loud and not stood in nervous, sweaty silence for thirty seconds. Jonah is really fucking up on timing today. “I… I don’t know.” He goes for, in the end, when he can’t possibly avoid saying anything for any longer. The answer doesn’t even make sense. “Yes? I think so? Yes.” 

“Huh.” Dan seems pretty wrapped up in his thoughts, even putting his iPad down for a moment, although he says nothing more. The air grows thick with tension, and Jonah isn’t  _ good  _ at being vulnerable, and fuck it’s definitely time for him to leave. He gets up from the breakfast bar, throws some bits and pieces into his shitty briefcase, and makes to leave. There’s way more stuff of his here, but he can move it out later. When Dan isn’t here. “Where are you going?” 

Jonah looks up. “My place.” He says like it’s obvious, and then corrects himself. “Home.” Because his damp, shitty apartment, with peeling wallpaper and dripping faucets and temperamental hot water supply — that’s home. Not Dan’s swanky bachelor pad, no matter how many of his personal effects might live there. 

“Stay.” He says quietly, waiting until Jonah is out of the room, practically out of the front door. “You don’t have to go.” He’s red, tense in the shoulders, and he jumps a little when Jonah drops his case on the floor with a loud bang. “You’re not expecting… do I have to—” He screws his eyes up, turns away from him slightly, and lets out a deep breath. “You know I can’t say it, J. Not  _ that _ .” 

It still hurt, but he is ready for it. “I know.” 

“This wasn’t meant to happen.” 

That hurts more, but Jonah can take it. “I know.” He echoes. “I know.” The words ‘I’m sorry’ hover at the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them back. It’s not his fault, any more than it’s Dan’s. He doesn’t want it either. It goes quiet, and Jonah reverts to watching congresspeople mouthing along silently on whatever terrible weekend political analysis program CNN can shit out. It comes back from commercial to Congressman Furlong’s chinless fucking head bobbing around, the pure bollocks audible even from the muted screen. He wishes they could switch places. He fucking wishes he was on CNN this morning, discussing the debt ceiling and the Meyer ad-shit-istration in a sweaty, cramped studio full of conniving, manipulative little assholes than here in Dan’s kitchen. Dan has gone back to his phone, but he’s firing out messages at a ferocious pace now, rather than idly scrolling Twitter. 

He suspects he knows who he is sending messages to, and is proven right within five minutes. 

_ Amy Brookheimer: ooooooooooooooooooh my god _ __   
_ Jonah Ryan: hey so why dont you head over to the smithsonian and fuck yourself with a rusty iron age spear _ _   
_ __ Amy Brookheimer: heartache’s made your insult game weak, ryan

“You seriously told Amy? Already? Really?” 

Dan scowls. Types out a message. Thirty seconds later.

_ Amy Brookheimer: awww come on why would you tell dan than i told you he told me _

He puts his phone screen side down so he doesn't have to keep looking at that taunting flashing light, the reminder that Dan will always find a way to turn this into a joke, a bit of gossip. Even if it's embarrassing for him, it's better to for him to tell the story if it avoids allowing himself to be the punchline.

Yeah, he needs to get out of here. Jonah shoves his phone into his pocket, grabs his case from where he dropped it just minutes ago. “Jonah, wait—” Dan scrambles after him, managed just barely to get to the door before him. It's not like Dan is strong or tall enough to actually block his path, but whatever. Maybe he'll take the extra seconds and realise he has something to say in response after all.

Jonah isn't holding his breath.

He doesn't say anything, in fact. Just stands there, one hand on the lock, looking up at Jonah without a thing to say. “I need to go home, Egan.” He's tired, and fuck he cannot take another minute of Dan looking at him like that, like this is somehow _ his  _ fault. This is the ground rule he sets himself. No apologising. He's been saying for years only a fucking idiot would ever be seriously into Dan Egan, and he stands by that, even now. He won't stand by Dan making him feel guilty about it. Jonah is done with being treated like a second class fucking citizen. He's a congressman, god damn it. He's a  _ first class citizen.  _ A first class with extra leg room and complimentary champagne citizen. 

The point is, he deserves better. 

Dan, maybe realising he can't hold such a first class citizen hostage in his apartment, finally steps aside, and Jonah storms out without looking back.

Oh, he wants to. He really does. He wants to take whatever Dan will give him and then beg for more, but he doesn't. Because he has some god damn self respect. 

Kind of. 


	5. Chapter 5

“You two need to get your shit together.” Amy snaps, and Jonah starts. Like ninety percent of his energy right now is going towards not thinking about Dan, and the other ten is wondering where the fuck their waiter is with his garlic bread. Whichever way, none of his attention is on Amy. “Your mutual pining is incredibly distracting and unlike you, I'm very busy.” 

Jonah throws his hands in the air and nearly slaps a small child in the face. “What exactly is there left for me to do, Amy? I laid my cards on the table weeks ago. I don't care if he  _ loves _ me or not, I just want him to fucking talk to me.” He's definitely swearing too loudly in too close proximity to children, and Amy shoots him a warning glance as a nearby mother tuts disapprovingly. “This is bullshit. And where’s my garlic bread?”

Fortunately for Amy, a waitress appears a second later with a platter of cheesy garlic bread that she sets down in front of Jonah. She gives him a slightly longer than necessary glance, and whether it’s in reproach for the foul language or because she recognises him from the TV, Jonah doesn’t even care. She’s pretty hot too. Amazing legs. Amy spears a piece of lettuce and looks at him over the fork. “Look, Ryan, here’s the thing.” She leans forward like she might share a secret across the table and Jonah leans in too, slightly over enthusiastically, and nearly bashes their foreheads together. “I honestly couldn’t care less about your lover’s tiff with Dan Egan.” 

“So much fucking help you are.” He grumbles and rips off another bite of cheesy garlicky carbs. 

“Have you tried talking to him?” 

“How can I? He hasn’t called me.” 

“Have you called him?” 

Jonah stares at her. “I told him that I  _ loved  _ him, Amy. I’m not calling him. He has to call me.”

“And what do you think the chances are that Dan is sat at home moping because you haven’t called him and he can’t call you first because he couldn’t say he loved you back?” 

Amy doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand the careful tiptoe they have been doing for the last year, never swaying too far into emotional relationship territory. Sure, there’s been a few wobbles, like the fact they essentially live together and other than one guilty campaign stop fling Jonah hasn’t been anywhere near another naked body in months, but dropping the L bomb was way out there, and it is undoubtedly Dan’s move. Amy doesn’t understand. 

“Hey, Egan.” She says brightly, and Jonah’s head snaps up so quickly he cricks his neck. He yelps in pain, but is aware enough to realise, thankfully, that Amy is only on the phone.

Wait. Amy is on the phone. Amy just called Dan. Shit.  _ Shit shit shit shit.  _ It says a lot about the state of friendships in the capital that  _ Amy Brookheimer _ is their mutual most trusted confidant. “How are you doing?” 

Jonah leans forward as if that might help him hear Dan’s response, but all he gets is a continued earful of a toddler two tables over crying over blueberry pancakes. “Sounds healthy.” She snorts, and Jonah wonders what exactly he’s up to. Knowing Dan, he’s off getting his fix elsewhere. There’s plenty of hot college interns floating around K Street, and Egan used to be an aide to the current _ President of the United States _ . He can take his pick. “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Have you tried talking to each other?” 

He nearly swallows his tongue. Is she talking about— 

“So you’d be surprised that I’m currently sat opposite a grumpy, butthurt Jonah Ryan who keeps checking his phone every twenty seconds to see if you’ve called him?” 

“ _ Amy! _ ” He hisses, face burning up. He fucking hates her. He hates her so much.

She holds out the phone. He considers it for a moment, then takes it with a slightly shaking hand. “Hello?” 

He can’t help but smile when he hears the voice on the other side. “Hey.” Dan says. “It was definitely on you to call me.” 

“On what fucking planet was it  _ my _ responsibility to call you?” 

Dan laughs. “Thank god for Amy.” He says at the same time that Jonah says “I’m going to kill Amy.” She flips him off and continues eating her salad with a smug grin. 

Jonah waits for Dan to say something more, but he doesn’t. He’s not talking next, it’s not  _ his  _ job to— yeah, they were ridiculous. “So…” He breaks the ice, making it  _ clear  _ it’s Dan’s turn to speak god damn it, and he finally gets the hint.

“So… We should talk.” Dan says. As if that’s not exactly what Jonah is trying to get him to do. Use your words, Egan, it’s not that hard. 

“Yeah, that’s what I’m  _ trying  _ to get you to do—” 

“We should talk in person. Given that you’re on Amy’s phone. And Amy is clearly sitting right there. And I’m not having this conversation in front of Amy.” 

Right. Right. That makes sense. “We’re at that diner on 15th Street that gives you like a thousand hash browns.”

“That place is disgusting, Jonah. I refuse to set foot in there. Meet me at my place in twenty minutes.” Dan hangs up before Jonah has time to respond, like, he might have had other plans today? Other plans he would prioritise over finding out exactly where he and Dan Egan stood.

Yeah, right. He’s long accepted that Dan will take precedence over most things in his life. And Dan knows it. 

He hands Amy her phone back, and throws a twenty on the table. “Later, Brookheimer.”

Jonah makes it to Dan’s in seventeen minutes and hovers awkwardly outside the door for the last one hundred and eighty seconds, before knocking dead on time. The door swings open immediately, as if he had been standing on the other side of the door waiting for him too. “You gonna let me in, or what?” Jonah says when Dan makes no move to step aside and let him over the threshold. “I abandoned perfectly good garlic bread for this, so you can’t back out now.”

Dan blinks, and hastily moves out of the way. Jonah ducks under the door frame, and feels at home once more. He hates staying in his apartment, and it’s been a long time since he spent so many consecutive nights there. Dan’s place, with its obnoxious bachelor pad touches, has been his unwilling home for over a year. He flops down onto the couch and waits for Dan to say something. He will continue to wait for Dan to say something. There is no end result here where Jonah is the first to speak, after Dan’s terrible reaction to a declaration of love, since he’s already established he has no inclination to apologise. 

Dan stands against the wall, as if having the front door there as a possible means of escape is comforting to him. “So I have no idea how we’ve got to this point because like hell did I ever imagine this happening but… I actually missed you. A lot.” Dan says hurriedly, because everyone knows the faster you say something, the less sincerely you mean it. That’s definitely how communication works. “And… I’m not going to say…  _ that _ .” He says, and looks a little more confident when Jonah doesn’t storm out or throw something. “But apparently your stupid simian face is important to me. So. Please continue pissing me off with everything you do on a day to day basis. Because I’m not sure what I have left if you stop.” 

Jonah considers it for a second. For Dan, bad with emotions, bad with showing weakness, bad with anything that doesn’t inherently involve self-gratification, that was pretty impressive. He’s pink tinged and  _ nervous-sweaty  _ which is a whole new thing for Jonah to witness, and… he doesn’t hate it. “I need a drink.” He says after a good thirty seconds of watching Dan stew, and he looks confused. “Anything not brewed in Idaho, thanks.” 

Looking pointedly at the clock but saying nothing, Dan goes into the kitchen, clinks a few glasses, and comes back with rich dark whisky, a couple of fingers for each of them. “So does that mean—” He says, 

Jonah takes a sip. It’s expensive, and good, and one of many perks of living in Dan’s apartment. “As I’m the only one who has actually made my feelings clear...” He says, determined  _ not  _ to blush because he’s not embarrassed, god damn it, and if he can make Dan feel bad about being a shitty communicator, all the better. Does a confession of love still count if you aggressively guilt trip it out of someone? “Maybe it would be healthier for me to not be platonically boning the guy I’m in love with, but like, fuck that. Plus, all my good suits are here.”

“These are your  _ good  _ suits?” 

“We can’t all fit in children’s sizes, dipshit. Some of us have to buy adult sizes and the selection is limited.” 

“Bigfoot sizes, you mean.”

Jonah finishes his whisky, and puts the tumbler down. Dan looks like shit, which makes him very happy. This — the complete failure to function in his usual cold, robotic manner — is because of  _ him _ . He’ll take that, for now. The satisfaction of having torn down that wall is definitely worth all the hours of therapy he’s gonna need when this inevitably falls apart. Jonah isn’t stupid — he had fallen in love before, or so he thought. Him being the more eager one in a pairing has never been unusual, but usually as soon as he finds out they don’t feel how he does (in most cases, they’re using him for political gain but hey in this city there’s always a chance of that) he shuts it down. Or it gets shut down for him. The point is, as soon as the imbalance in emotional investment becomes blindingly obvious, there’s no relationship left any more. With Dan, it’s not just that he’s still here, it’s that no matter what happens, no matter how many other people Dan is fucking or how impossible he finds it to express human emotion, Jonah can’t see himself with anyone else. 

And that scares him. Deep down, it terrifies him. So that’s where he pushes it. Deep, deep down. What they have works, basically. Rocking the boat is gonna send his life crashing into the Potomac more than it ever might affect Dan Egan.

Another couple fingers of whisky have appeared in his glass. He resigns himself to the very real possibility he’ll be smashed by three in the afternoon, and raises the glass to his lips.

Inevitably, they get drunk, and then they fuck. It’s been too long, Jonah thinks, as Dan hurries to yank his ugly sweatpants off, leaving a trail of abandoned clothing in his wake. Dan wants it so badly — and he wants it badly too, let that be well understood, but Dan’s eagerness for this, for him, is just another boost for his ego, the cherry on the top of the cake. “Fuck I’ve missed this.” Jonah smirks as he pushes Dan down onto the bed. He looks completely desperate, dick bobbing against his stomach, eyes blown wide. Dan Egan is one beautiful motherfucker at the best of times, but right now, Jonah wishes he could get his phone out and take a picture. He totally would too, if his phone wasn’t in his jacket pocket somewhere in Egan’s hallway, and he’d rather stay and appreciate the view first hand. “Jonah, I swear to God, if you don’t stick something in my ass right now, I’m going to destroy you.”

Grinning, he reaches for the bedside drawer where Dan keeps the lube. There’s a fairly large dildo in there, which… is new. Dan always scoffed at the idea of toys, bragged that he got enough of the real thing to ever need a silicon substitute. Clearly the last few weeks had been enough to change that particular stance. Filing that away to mock Dan with later, he grabs the (significantly emptier) bottle of lube and squirts some on to his fingers. As much as he takes Dan’s threat of destruction with a pinch of salt, he wastes no time fucking two slick fingers into his ass. There’s a time and place for teasing, taking it slow, but right now isn’t it, when they haven’t fucked in nearly a month, and Jonah more than anything wants to feel the heat of Dan around him, and more importantly, to get off on something other than his own hand for a change. 

Dan bucks as the two fingers just glance against his prostate, his breath coming in ragged moans. There’s a bead of come at the tip of his cock already, and his hand reaches down to jerk himself once, twice — Jonah catches his wrist with his free hand, tutting quietly. “I know your hand and your dick have got rather well acquainted recently,” he smirks, his eyes flicking back to the drawer containing what’s got to be at least nine inches of bright purple silicon, “But that’s still my job.” 

The moan that leaks past his lips is like crack to Jonah’s ears — he wishes he’d recorded that, could make it his ringtone so any random ass person on the street could know the kind of noises he could get out of Daniel  _ Clifford _ Egan. “Can you fucking do your job then? Can’t believe you managed to find something you’re even shittier at than being a Congressman.” He snaps, and Jonah pins his hand effortlessly to the mattress, enjoying every second, thriving on how much he missed this. He’s willing to oblige, mainly because his self-discipline is non-existent. 

“Says the guy who’s had and then been fired from every fucking job he can get in this town.” He fucks his fingers into Dan at a brutal pace with each word, stealing the protestations from Dan’s lips and turning them into harsh guttural groans. “At least I can get people to vote for me.”

“I’ll vote for you if you stop being such a useless cunt and actually fuck me.” 

If only all his campaigning was this easy. His hips line up behind Dan’s and he withdraws his fingers and presses slowly into that tight heat, making sure Dan feels every inch filling him up. “God, fuck, J…” His hands clench around the pillow, hips pushing back to fuck deeper, and Jonah abandons the slow and steady strategy, fingers digging into Dan’s pelvis as he thrusts all the way, and Dan moans his name. 

The sound is heaven. 

“God, Egan, you’re such a slut.” Jonah gasps, but it’s taking all the effort he can muster, every bit of his brain that isn’t screaming out in pleasure, to keep up the stream of insults and snark and not just let it be replaced with a litany of  _ fuck fuck fuck i love you fuck fuck fuck—  _

He doesn’t last long, but Dan comes with a shout mere moments after Jonah does, so he doesn’t care that much. It’s been too long, okay, and he was worried enough that he wouldn’t ever get this again. He slumps down into Dan’s pillow mountain, breaths coming in light pants, and his feet dangling just off the end of the bed. Dan has his eyes closed, and Jonah questions for a second if he’s turning into a post-coital sleeper, but just as goes to poke him awake, his eyes flutter open and they’re  _ wet _ . “Did I fuck you so good you  _ cried _ ?” He says gleefully.

“No, fuck off.” He spits, blinking the moisture out of his eyes. “I’m fucking sensitive, that’s all.” 

Jonah snorts — he didn’t need Dan to tell him that. Dan realises what he said, rolls his eyes, and doesn’t bother clarifying. He knows Jonah well enough to know that that would just be fanning the flames. But Jonah knows Dan well enough to know that whatever he claims, his eyes aren’t just watering from an oversensitive prostate. He rips the condom off, knots it, and throws it two feet wide of the trash can — a nice bonus present for Dan to deal with later — and sinks back into the pillows, and into Dan’s arms.

It’s not perfect. God, by no means, is it anything even remotely approaching perfect, but it’s a damn sight better than nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> idk i'll try to post weekly ish?? we'll see


End file.
